Recovery

I sit in the middle aisle of the bus, earphones in, watching the rain slowly fog up the window and the cars rush past us and the poor people outside who have nothing to protect them but a raincoat, and the even more unfortunate ones who dared to go against the weather forecast and dream of a sunny summers day. I sit alone, but I don’t mind, I find that it’s better this way- more time for me and my thoughts. We pull away from the bus stop, having loaded the closer students on the way to school. This carries on for several stops, the rain making the journey slow going. Eventually, we pull up at our destination. I wait for everyone else to get off, there’s no point getting battled in an attempt to get into the line to the front of the bus. Stepping outside, I see that the rain has cleared up but the sky is still overcast, threatening to unleash another torrent of water from the heavens above. The bell rings its shrill tone as the bus pulls away. I check my phone for the time; I have 5 minutes to get to class. Not wanting to be late for form time I hastily walk towards C block. Entering the classroom just as the teacher starts to call the roll, I mumble a hasty apology about the bus being slow and sit down at my usual seat.

Quarter of an hour later, I’m in first period, which is Maths. Usually the subject I do best in and enjoy the most, I can’t concentrate on what the teacher is writing up on the whiteboard today. My thoughts are turned towards the argument I had with my dad before I left to go to school. I called him a hypocrite and he blew up in front of me about how I was a disrespectful little shit and if I wanted to live somewhere else it was fine by him. I told him I didn’t want to but from the look on his face I knew it wasn’t wise to say much, so I said, “I’ve got to go to school,” and walked out of the door. Possibly not as smooth as I had thought it would be.

“Harry? Do you have an answer for me?” I am brought out of my head and looked up to see the teacher staring at me, eyebrows raised.

“Um,” I quickly look up at the board, and find something about standard deviation. I stumble over my words, buying time, when I feel a small piece of paper coming from the person next to me. “5.24,” I say, and when the teacher nods her head, I look beside me, thanking the girl sitting there in my head. She nods, smiling.

After class, as I walk down the stairs, someone touches my shoulder. It’s the girl, her name is Alex.

“Hi! You’re welcome by the way,” she said with a grin on her face.

“Thank you,” I respond quickly.

“You should really pay more attention” she says mockingly, and then takes off into the growing crowd of people exiting the building before I can say something witty back.

By lunchtime, the clouds have parted, revealing a blue sky with the remnants of a rainbow, which must have appeared while I was inside. My friends are all away on a P.E camp in the South Island, so not wanting to look like some loner I go to the art room and get to work on a piece due in next week. Currently it is just an A4 piece of paper with some rough ‘textural’ background my teacher would say. My goal for the 45 minutes I have is to pencil in the details. I work in silence, pausing occasionally to look up at the scummy windows, covered in paint from a year of use. Looking down at the desk, I think about how long ago I learnt never to put my hands under the tables, for the risk of touching someone’s gum which has been left there to fester.

In what seems to short a time, the bell goes and I pack up and head off to my fifth period class. An hour later, I’m waiting outside the bus stop, and when the bus finally arrives, I sit in the same seat, next to the window, which is now bright with the glaring sun poking through. At home, I unlock the door, throw my bag onto the floor, and raid the cupboard for anything tasty, which requires no effort to make. Afterwards, I do my homework, practice the piano (I tell myself that I’m stopping next year), and sit down to watch the crap on TV, waiting for my mum to come home at 5 and dad at 7.

It’s 8 o’clock and no one is home. I’ve made some spaghetti on toast to quench my hunger, but am starting to get worried. I have received no texts or phone calls from either of the two, but I tell myself that they both probably forgot about the time. Mum is working on something important now that requires a lot of attention, and Dad is most likely stuck in traffic, yes, that’s it. By 9, to kill time I have done the housework and had a shower. I can feel that something isn’t right, but when I hear a car engine turning off from outside, and a knock on the door, I breathe a sigh of relief. Opening the door, I see flashing red and blue lights, and it takes only a moment for everything to start to slow. A police officer with his hat by his chest speaks to me, but I can’t hear what he is saying over the thudding in my ears. He takes me to the station and gets me something to eat, while he contacts my aunt who I gave him the number for. When she arrives, we embrace but I’m not crying. The officer who picked me up asks if we want to see the bodies. I nod, and when the door opens it finally hits me that my parents are dead, but I am still not crying. I take this to be because of shock.

That night was a long one. We didn't really know what to say or each other, my aunt having lost her sister and me both my parents. It was decided that I would be taken home and pick up a few clothes and other bits and then go and stay with my aunt. This is do quietly, my mind a blank, just choosing clothes from the top of the pile. I collect my wallet, iPod, and the book I am currently reading, my phone is already in my pocket. We drive the few blocks to her house, and I softly say goodnight. Without anything such as getting changed, I crash on my bed, and in the privacy of my room, I begin to weep into my pillow.

It turns out that I was right, mum had worked late and so ended up in the same bit of traffic as dad, so when the bomb went off they both, well, they both… So did 10 others who were around them. I am away from school until the funeral on Saturday, and then ‘for as long as it takes until I am ready’. The next 3 days are the slowest in my 16 years. People drop by with flowers and hugs, my friends, who came back the day after come too, in order to keep me company. But it’s silent company, no one knows quite what to say, and I don’t blame them. Slowly but also in a way quickly, the minutes turn into hours turn into days and turn into weeks.

A month later on the Monday I know that I need to get back to school. It’s dull staying at home and I need the distraction. I get dropped off, and everyone who I see is very nice. During form time I get pulled into my dean’s office. As he starts speaking I can't help but cry again, suddenly remembering the last thing I said to my dad. He pulls me into a hug, which seems at first strange but what I am thankful for. We discuss the option of counselling, which I reluctantly agree to, knowing it’s for the best.

At interval I find my friends where they usually are, on the field. They start to say some words of comfort but it slowly dies down into what I assume for them would be an awkward and uncomfortable silence; I see them staring briefly at each other and then back down to the grass, and the bell ringing seems to be a sign of relief. The following period I get a note from the school councillor and go to meet her. She tells me how the best thing to do is to speak about my parents, and my feelings, and how I need to stay close with my friends, blah blah blah. But at lunchtime the very people I was told to stay close to aren’t there. I don’t have the energy to find them so just sit there, back against a classroom wall, until the bell goes for last period, and although I had felt alone before, that was nothing compared to this.

My class is Maths, and Alex is there again as usual, and tightly hugs me when I sit down. During the period I do nothing, I don’t understand what is on the board and all my strength is put into keeping the tears at bay. Before long the bell goes and I get a text from my aunt saying that she is really sorry but can’t pick me up as she is in a meeting. I wait at the bus stop but Alex comes up to me, and doesn’t try to cheer me up, but somehow makes me feel better. We walk home, and I get so wrapped up in the conversation that for a moment I forget what has happened, and as we walk up the street of my parent’s house I stop and look at it, and it hits me again. She realises what has happened all to late, and in a state of shock I run off without another word until I get back to my current residence.

The next day I persevere with school. I don’t have Maths today, which I am upset about because it means that I wouldn’t see her again. However, after school, there she is waiting for me at the bus stop, and I smile. We talk about nothing in particular, but this time she leads me on a route that bypasses my street, which I am secretly glad about, but pretend not to notice. As we come up to her house she asks if I want to come in, but embarrassed, I say that my aunt is expecting me home. She says that its okay, and as I turn to leave she kisses me on the cheek, says “bye Harry,” and goes inside. I stand there for a while in some sort of daze, touching the spot of contact. A few minutes go by, and I start walking away.

It’s when I get home when I find out that there is a note in my hand with a number, her number, which she must have snuck into my hand at some point. I smile to myself again, and saying hello to my aunt, I go to my room and lie on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. I don’t notice the mould starting to grow there or the bits of paint peeling away that my eyes would usually be drawn to. I am happy, and when I sit down for dinner my aunt tells me that there is a sparkle in my eyes that she hasn’t seen for weeks.

If I was to describe her in one word there wouldn't be a single adjective that would be suitable. She has long blonde hair, which flows straight to just below her shoulders. She has soft blue eyes, not unlike my own, and her smile makes everything seem like it's going to be okay. She's different from other girls, not obsessed with her image, yet still has plenty of friends. She is funny and witty and isn't fake, and I am able to have a decent conversation with her ranging from school to cronuts (an odd mixture of croissants and donuts) and everything in between.

The next morning I make an effort to get ready for school. I choose my nice clothes (like I used to wear. Not flash, but not bad), clean my teeth well, Listerine and everything. I gel my hair so it looks good, and when I am finally ready I catch the bus. I hope that she gets on but it is in vain as she walks to and from school. The classes no longer feel like a silent blur, and when my teachers ask what’s different I smile and tell them to mind their own business and they laugh. I don’t know where my friends have gone, but I don’t care, I spend the breaks with Alex. That day when we leave each other I kiss her properly, but having not done it before it isn’t very good and we laugh. I tell her that I will walk in the morning tomorrow, and the rest of the way home I feel the happiest that I have felt in a very long time.

However the next day it’s raining, bucketing down, so texting an apology, I catch the bus. As usual I sit alone, looking out at the sodden souls outside. My thoughts turn to my parents, and although I am still devastated I think about the good memories, and laugh quietly but audibly to myself as the bus pulls away. We have to take a detour relatively quickly, as due to the rain there has been an accident on the road; I can hear the sirens in the distance.

During Maths, Alex isn’t there, which I find odd as she said she would see me at school, but I just assume that she is at some meeting or something. At interval I look but to no avail to find her, likewise at lunch. It’s bugging me, but I tell myself that I’ll see her after school. But she’s not there. I wait half an hour, until all the students have left, but eventually face the fact that she’s not coming. I take our usual route home, planning to stop by her house and see what’s up. I knock on the door, but with the slight force it pushes open. Her mother looks up and even though we haven’t met, she immediately knows who I am. She surprises me with a hug, and I tell her that I’m okay now, thinking it was about my parents. “There was an accident,” she tells me in a grief stricken voice, and it is at that moment when I notice the heap of tissues on the floor of the lounge, and sitting on the couch, the same man in blue that I saw on my doorstep just 36 days earlier.